Taxi: Scientology

Barely one week later, taking a taxi on exactly the same route, I had an experience that would have been sinister if it weren’t so ridiculous. I often get into taxis without looking at them, as cars mean almost nothing to me, although bumper dents and scrapes are normally a good clear indicator to avoid. If I’d taken greater notice of the car, then I probably wouldn’t have got in. It was vintage, not in the classic car sense but in the ‘really-old-about-to-fall-to-bits’ sense. It’s true that the way that cars look from the outside say a lot about the owner, but it’s also true that in Buenos Aires almost none of the drivers actually own their taxis. Anyway, in I got.

No seatbelts, always a good sign. Not much of a door handle either. The little face precariously perched at just the right height peered through the rearview mirror at me. He was a owl-like, with thick glasses and a high-pitched voice; I think he was sitting on the Yellow Pages and that he had blocks attached to his shoes so he could reach the pedals.

“Eh? Where you going?” I gave him the address and he looked totally blank, whereupon I explained how to get there. He blinked a few times, smiled in satisfaction, and on we went.

He explained that he had only been driving for a few weeks, that he had been a victim of the financial crisis and its effect on US companies: he had worked as an IT technician, able to rid systems of bugs in a jiffy (or so he claimed), employed by a secretive US firm. Or he couldn’t remember their name. Anyway, one weekend they disappeared. On Friday, he’d bid them all goodnight and have a nice etc, and on Monday they had vanished without a trace. Recounting the tale, he lifted a gnarled, clenched fist in rage, but didn’t have the energy or the anger to pull it off.

I nodded in sympathy, and we drove on, him muttering about the fairness of life, the lack of justice in this world, and his grasp of the English language in the same breath. The English phrases would rise from his mire of disillusionment like bubbles in a viscous pool:

“something unintelligible stupid bankers something something scum of the world VERY NICE WEATHER, NO? something angry miserable souls WOULD YOU LIKE SOME TEA…” etc etc.

Finally, forced to stop by a traffic light, he asked me if I would like some computer assistance. I made polite noises, but he heard none of them, producing a flyer with his contact details, and then surprised me by asking, as he handed over the small square paper:

“Have you got any disorders? Any bad dreams, anxiety, anger issues?”

I blanked, with no idea what to say. He continued.

“Because if you have, I can get rid of them too. I’m a Scientologist, you see.”
I was left flabbergasted. Scientologist? I hadn’t been expecting that. I looked down at the paper he had just put in my hand and, sure enough, there it was. An entire list of his services. The top half of the square talked about his IT prowess and offered a 15% discount on your first ‘hard-drive purge’, while the entirety of the bottom half focused on his ability to cure all ailments through his Scientologist methods. Text space had obviously been an issue for the flyer, and the two halves had merged into each other somewhat, so the 15% off deal could equally be for ‘getting rid of unpleasant memories’ as well as ‘hard-drive purging’.

The rest of the taxi journey involved a spirited defence of Scientology, about how it wasn’t a cult but rather was a psychological practice essential for curing deep-rooted mental ailments. Or something. He started reeling off success cases as we neared home. The cases themselves were pretty harrowing, but having managed to get to a stage where I couldn’t take anything he said seriously, it was hard to fully engage with the dark tales he recounted me with. Not wishing to hurt his feelings, I got out one block early and wished him well in his multifaceted career before collapsing in incredulous giggles.